Tuesday, July 30, 2013

GETTING SOME ACTION IN WeHo: RUN, SKIP & HOP

When I decided on a gaycation this summer, I immediately
thought of my own version of How Stella
Got Her Groove Back. Clearly, when immersed in a gay epicenter, there’s
going to be some action.

First, the run. Having enjoyed the Frontrunners session
along the beach in Santa Monica, I decided to try the Monday night West
Hollywood run. I figured it would be another way to meet gay men, in the
healthiest of ways. And besides, I was curious about what might make a decent
route, given all the traffic signals and the busy streets. Stops and starts on
a run break my rhythm and make be want to trade the exercise for leisurely
window shopping along a short segment of the route. This is why I only brought
my driver’s license on the run and left the wallet at home. I cart the driver’s
license for identification to address the morbid possibility that a drunk
driver might plow me over by running the curb or, more likely, I might have a
klutzy moment and stumble into traffic. This is just one reason I don’t feel
the passion that other joggers profess. Some people risk life and limb jumping
from airplanes, but I figure a simple run is enough for me.

While I began in a small pack of four, one fellow turned
back two miles into the run and the other two pulled away. No matter. By then,
I was fully invested in the run. The speedsters ahead of me proved taunting,
like a pair of mechanical bunnies at the racetrack, with me being the lame
greyhound, nearly catching them when lights turned red, only to see them pull
away again upon a flash of green.

The course took me
down Santa Monica Boulevard through Beverly Hills before cutting over to Sunset
to pass such sights as the restroom where George Michael got arrested and the
club where River Phoenix died. Washington,D.C. has the Lincoln Memorial and the
White House; L.A. has its infamous toilets and bars.

Next, the skip. Okay, not so much a skip, but a postponement.
Despite Hoover’s intensive tail wagging, the dog walk had to wait. (He got to
piddle on the tiny tree struggling to grow just outside the bungalow.)

Instead, I quickly showered and headed to dinner at Tender
Greens on Santa Monica Boulevard in the heart of West Hollywood. Being a tad
late, I altered the social dynamics, transforming dinner for two to dinner for
three. Trey, the run leader, was taken, but judging for the icy coolness of tablemate
Rocky’s greeting, he was taken aback that I would be taking some of Taken’s
time. Oh, Rocky. I’ve been there. So much wasted energy, as clearly confirmed
by Taken gushing about his partner and repeatedly responding to his boyfriend’s
text messages over the course of dinner.

Finally, the hop. Bar
hopping. Well, not so much a series of hops as a single pit stop. We strolled
over to Revolver, a club I’d always presumed was named after its revolving
door, but on second thought, might reference a misidentified gun in one’s
pocket. Ah, what do I know? All I know is I’ve always been a sucker for
spinning doors. How can one not find momentary amusement by the carousel
version of an entrance. (Yes, there are so many reasons why I am still single!)

Being back in a WeHo gay bar, I could not help but let my
eyes wander as Taken and Rocky talked. So much to see! Lovely brick walls, big
windows, an uncluttered bar counter. Yes, once again, my timing was all off.
Seems that, even in West Hollywood, gay bars are sleepy establishments at 9
p.m. on a Monday. Why should it matter? Clearly, Taken didn’t care. In an hour,
he’d rejoin his partner who was winding down an evening shift. And Rocky was
just happy to take up more of Taken’s time as I perused bar fixtures. Nice
lighting, decent stools.

Could I have lingered when my companions left at ten? No
doubt, the club would draw a crowd closer to 11 when nocturnal animals begin to
prowl. But I’d had my fill. I draw the line at two club sodas. Too much lime makes
my gums feel rough.

After a run, skip and hop, it’s good to walk it out. Hoover
and I fit in both the delayed walkie and the window shopping as we strolled
along the trendy shops of Melrose Place. Marc Jacobs! Carolina Herrera! Oscar
de la Renta! Once again, I left the wallet behind, instead stuffing my pockets
with pooper scooper bags.

Such an action-filled night! This is what people envision as
a gaycation, isn’t it?

About Me

It seems my interests are changing. I recently had a book published and, when a friend from Texas called and asked what it was about, I indicated it had a sports background. "You're kidding!" she replied. "I thought it would be about fashion."